


Dragon queen.

by Kieran_Howl



Series: Dragon queen [1]
Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Red Queen - Victoria Aveyard
Genre: Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Triggers, i swear like a sailor, lots of cussing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:44:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieran_Howl/pseuds/Kieran_Howl
Summary: Adisa Emersdottir's world is is divided by blood--Those with red and those with silver. Adisa and her family are lowly reds, destined to serve the silver elite whose supernatural abilities make them nearly gods. Adisa steals what she can to help her family survive, but a twist of fate leads her to the royal palace itself where, in front of the king and all his nobles, she discovers an ability she didn't know she had. except...her blood is red.to hide this impossibility, the king forces her into the role of a lost silver princess and betroths her to one of his own sons. As Adisa is drawn further into the silver world, her actions put into motion a deadly and violent dance, pitting prince against prince and Adisa against her own heart.





	Dragon queen.

I _hate_ First Friday, it makes the village crowded, and now, in the heat of high summer, that’s the last thing anyone wants. From my place in the shade it isn’t so bad, but the stink of bodies, all sweating with the morning work, is enough to make milk curdle. The air shimmers with heat and humidity, and even puddles from yesterday’s storm are hot, swirling with rainbow streaks of oil and grease.

The market deflates, with everyone closing their stalls for the day. The merchants are distracted, careless, and it’s easy for me to take whatever I want from their wares. By the time I’m done, my pockets bulge with trinkets and I’ve got an apple for the road.. not bad for a few minutes’ work. As the throng of people moves, I let myself be taken away by the human current. My hands dart in and out, always in fleeting touches. Some gold coins from a man’s pocket, a bracelet from some woman’s wrist—nothing anyone would miss. Villagers are too busy shuffling along to notice a pickpocket in their midst.

The high, stilt buildings rise all around us, ten feet above the muddy ground. In the spring the lower bank is under water, but right now it’s august when dehydration and sun sickness stalk the village. Almost everyone looks forward to the first Friday of every month, when work and lessons end early. But not me. I’d rather be in lessons, learning nothing in a small group made up of the other village teenagers. Not that I’ll be attending lessons much longer. My eighteenth birthday is coming, and with it, conscription. I’m not apprenticed, I don’t have a job, so I’m going to be sent to the war like all the other _idle_ ones. It’s no wonder there’s no work left, what with every man, woman, and child trying to stay out of the military.

The tiniest pressure at my waist makes me spin, acting on instinct. I grab at the hand foolish enough to try and pickpocket me, squeezing tight so the little imp won’t bee able to run away. But instead of a scrawny kid, I find myself staring up at a smirking face.  
Tori Denson. A fisherman’s apprentice, a war orphan, and probably my only real friend. We used to beat each other up as children, but now that we’re older—and he’s a foot taller than me—I try to avoid scuffles. He has his uses I suppose. Reaching high shelves, for example.

“You’re getting faster.” He chuckled, shaking off my grip. 

“Or you’re getting slower.” He rolls his eyes and snatches the apple out of my hand, I rolled my eyes at his antics and snatched the fruit back from him.

“Tsk, Tsk, Adisa,” he teases, shaking a finger at me. “This is supposed to be fun.”

“You’re an idiot.” By the time I look back up he’s already walking off with his long strides., forcing me to almost trot to keep up. His gait weaves, off balance. Sea legs, he calls them, though he’s never been to the far-off sea. I guess long hours on his master’s fishing boat, even on the river, are bund to have some effect.

Like my dad, Tori’s father was sent off to war, but whereas mine returned missing a leg and a lung. Den had come back in a shoe box. Tori’s mother ran off after that, leaving her young son to fend for himself. He almost starved to death but somehow kept picking fights with me. I fed him so I wouldn’t have to keep kicking around a bag of bones, now, ten years later, here he is. At least he’s apprenticed and won’t have to face the war.

 

We get to the foot of the hill, where the crowd is thicker, pushing and prodding on all sides. Oh, I forgot to mention, first Friday attendance is mandatory, unless you are, as the villager’s labeled it, an “Essential laborer.” The shadows around us deepen as we climb up the stone stairs, towards the crest of the hill. Tori takes them two at a time, almost leaving me behind, but he stops to wait. He smirks down at me and tosses some of his dark hair out of his brown eyes.

“Sometimes I forget you have the legs of a child.”

“Better than the brain of one.” I snap, giving him a light smack on the cheek as I pass. His laughter follows me up the steps.

“You’re grouchier than usual.”

“I just hate these things.”

“I know,” he murmurs, solemn for once.

And then we’re in the Arena, the sun blazing hot overhead. Built ten years ago, the Arena is easily the largest structure in Aounar. It’s nothing compared to the colossal ones on the larger islands, but still, the soaring arches of steel, the thousands of feet of concrete, are enough to make a village girl catch her breath.

Guards are everywhere, silver armor stood out amongst the crowd. This is First Friday, and they can’t wait to watch the proceedings, they carry long weapons called “Rifles” or “Pistols”, though they don’t need them. As is customary, the officers are silvers, and silvers have nothing to fear from us reds. Everyone knows that. We are not their equals, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at us. The only thing that serves to distinguish us, outwardly at least, is that Silvers stand tall. Our backs are bent by work and unanswered hope and the inevitable disappointment with our lot in life.

Inside the open-topped arena is just as hot as out, and Tori, always on his toes, leads me to some shade. We don’t get seats here, just long concrete benches, but the few silver nobles up above enjoy cool, comfortable boxes. There they have drinks, food, _ice_ even in high summer, cushioned chairs, electric lights, and other comforts I’ll never enjoy. The Silvers don’t bat an eye at any of it, complaining about the “Wretched conditions.” I’ll give them a wretched condition, if I ever have the chance. All we get here are hard benches and a few screechy video monitors almost to bright and noisy to stand.

“Bet you a day’s wages it’s another strongarm today.” Tori says. A cocky smirk on his face.

“No bet.” I shoot back at him. Many reds gamble their earnings on the fights, hoping to win a little something to help them get through another week. But not me, not even with Tori. It’ easier to cut the bookie’s purse than try and win money from it. “You shouldn’t waster your money like that.”

“It’s not a waste if I’m right. It’s always a strong arm beating up on someone.” Strong arms usually make up at least one half of the fights, , their skills and abilities better suited to the arena than almost any other silver. They seem to revel in it, using their superhuman strength to toss other champions around like rag dolls.

“What about the other one?” I ask, thinking about the range of silvers that could appear. Telkies, Swifts, Nymphs, Greeny’s, stone skins—all of them terrible to watch.  
“Not sure. Hopefully something cool. I could use some fun.” Tori and I don’t really see eye to eye on the feats of First Friday. For me, watching to champions rip into each other is not enjoyable, but Tori loves it. _Let them ruin each other_ , he says. _They’re not our people._

He doesn’t understand what the feats are about. This isn’t mindless entertainment, meant to give us some respite from grueling work. This is calculated, cruel, a message. Only silvers can fight in the arena because only a silver can survive the arena. They fight to show us their strength and power. _You are no match for us. We are your betters. We are gods._ It’s written in every superhuman blow the champions land.

And they’re absolutely right. Last month I watched a Swift battle a Telky and, though the swift could move faster than the eye could see, the telky stopped him cold. With just the power of his mind, he lifted the other fighter right off the ground. The swift started to choke; I think the Telky had some invisible grip on his throat. When the swifts face turned blue, they called the match. Tori cheered. He’d bet on the telky.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Silvers and Reds, welcome to the First Friday, the feat of August.” The announcer’s voice echoes around the arena, magnified by the walls. He sounds bored, as usual, and I don’t blame him. Once the Feats were not matches at all, but executions. Prisoners and enemies of the state would be transported to Berk, the Archipelago’s capital city, and killed in front of a Silver crowd. I guess the Silver’s liked that, and the matches began. Not to kill but to entertain. Then they became the Feats and spread to the other islands, to different arena’s and different audiences. Eventually the red were granted admission, confined to t he cheap seats. It wasn’t long until the Silvers built arena’s everywhere, even villages like Aounar, and attendance that was once a gift became a mandatory curse. For whatever reason the villages of the archipelago enjoyed a marked reduction in Reed crime, dissent, and even the few acts of rebellion. Now silvers don’t have to use execution or the legions or even armed guards to keep the peace; two champions can scare us just as easily.

Today, the two in question look up to the job. The first to walk out onto the white sand is announced as Calder Coppinger, a silver from Hals in the east. The video screen blares a clear picture of the warrior, and no one needs to tell me this is a strong arm. He has arms like tree trunks, corded and veined and straining against his own skin. When he smiles, I can see all his teeth are gone or broken. Maybe he ran afoul of his own toothbrush when he was a growing boy.

Next to me, Tori cheers and the other villager roar with him. A guard throws a loaf of bread at the louder ones for their trouble. To my left another one hands a screaming child a bright yellow piece of paper. ‘lec papers—extra electricity rations. All of it to make us cheer, to make us scream, to force us to watch, even if we didn’t want to.

“That’s right, let him hear you!” the announcer drawls, forcing as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can. “And here we have his opponent, straight from the capital, Fiske Dromgoole.” The other warrior looked pale and weedy next to the human-shaped hunk of muscle, but his blue steel armor is fine and polished to a high sheen. He’s probably a second son of a second son, trying to win renown in the arena. Though he should be scared, he looks strangely calm.

Hs last name sounds familiar, but that’s not unusual. Many silvers belong to famous families, called houses, with dozens of members. The governing family of our island is house Torney, though I’ve never seen any of members of House Torney, they never visit more than once or twice a year, and even then, they never stoops to entering a red village like mine. I saw one of their boats once, a sleek thing painted with the colors of green and gold. The Head of Torney house is a greeny, and when he passed, the trees on the bank burst into bloom and flowers popped out of the ground. I thought it was beautiful, until one of the older boys threw rocks at their boat. The stones fell harmlessly into the river. They put the boy into the stocks anyways.

“It’ll be the strong arm for sure.” Tori frowns at the small champion. “How do you know? What’s Fiske’s power?”

“Who cares, he’s still going to lose,” I scoff, settling in to watch. The usual call rings out over the arena. Many rise to their feet, eager to watch, but I stay seated in silent protest. As calm as I might look, anger boils in my skin. Anger, and jealousy. 'We are gods', echoes in my head.

“Champions, set your feet.”

They do, digging their heels on opposite sides of the arena. Guns aren’t allowed in arena fights, so Calder draws a short, wide sword. I doubt he’ll need it. Fiske produces no weapon, his fingers merely twitching by his side.

A low, humming electric tone runs through the arena. I hate this part. The sound vibrates in my teeth, in my bones, pulsing until I think something might shatter. It ends abruptly with a chirping chime. It begins. I exhale.

It looks like a blood bath right away, Calder barrels forward like a bull, kicking up sand in his wake. Fiske tries to dodge Calder, using his shoulder to slide around the silver, but the Strongarm is quick. he gets hold of Fiske’s leg and tosses him across the arena like he’s made of feathers. The subsequent cheers drown out Fiske’s roar of pain as he collides with the cement wall, but it’s written on his face. Before he can hope to stand, Calder is over him, heaving him skyward. He hits the sand in a heap of what can only be broken bones but somehow rises to his feet again.

“Is he a punching bag?” Tori laughs. “Let him have it, Calder!” Tori doesn’t care about an extra loaf of bread or a few more minutes of electricity. That’s not why he cheers. He honestly wants to see blood, silver blood— _silver blood_ —stain the arena. It doesn’t matter that the blood is everything we aren’t, everything we can’t be, and everything we _want_. He just needs to see it and trick himself into thinking they are truly human, that they can be hurt and defeated. But I know better. Their blood is a threat, a warning, a promise. _We are not the same and never will be._

He’s not disappointed. Even the box seats can see the metallic, iridescent liquid dripping from Fiske’s mouth. It reflects the summer sun like a water mirror, painting a river down his neck and into his armor.

This is the true division between Silver’s and Red’s; the color of our blood. This simple difference somehow makes them stronger, smarter, _better_ than us.  
Fiske spits, sending a sunburst of silver blood across the arena. Ten yards away, Calder tightens his grip on his sword, ready to incapacitate Fiske and end this.  
Calder pounds through the sand, sword held high, eyes on fire. And then he freezes midstep, his armor clanking with the sudden stop. From the middle of the arena, the bleeding warrior points at Calder, with a stare to break bones.

Fiske flicks his fingers and Calder walks, perfectly in time with Fiske’s movements. His mouth falls open like he’s gone slow or stupid. _Like his mind is gone._  
I can’t believe my eyes.

A deathly quiet falls over the arena as we watch, not understanding the scene below us. Even Tori has nothing to say.

“A whisper.” I breathe aloud.

Never before have I seen one in the arena—I doubt anyone has. Whispers are rare, dangerous, and powerful, even among the silvers. Even in the _capital_. the rumors about them vary, but it boils down to something simple and chilling: they can enter your head, read your thoughts, and _control your mind_. And this is exactly what Fiske is doing, having whispered his way past Calder’s armor and muscle, into his very brain, where there are no defenses.

Calder raises his sword, hands trembling. He’s trying to fight Fiske’s power. But strong as he is there’s no fighting the enemy in his mind.

Another twist of Fiske’s hand and silver blood splashes across the sand as Calder plunges his sword straight through his armor, into the flesh of his own stomach. Even up in the seats, I can hear the sickening squelch of metal cutting through meat.

As the blood gushes from Calder, gasps echo across the arena. We’ve never seen so much blood here before. 

Blue lights flash to life, bathing the arena in a ghostly glow, signaling the end of the match. Silver healers run across the sand, rushing to the fallen Calder. Silver aren’t supposed to die here. Silvers are supposed to fight bravely, to flaunt their skills, to put on a good show—but not to _die_. After all, they aren’t Red’s.

Guards move faster than I’ve ever seen before. A few are swifts, rushing to and fro in a blur as they herd us out. They don’t want us around if Calder dies on the sand. Meanwhile, Fiske strides from the arena like a titan. His gaze falls on Calder’s body, and I expect him to look apologetic. Instead, his face is blank, emotionless, and so cold. The match was nothing to him. _We_ are nothing to him.

In lessons we learned about the world before ours, about the Valkyrie and God’s that lived in the sky, ruling the earth with kind and loving hands. Some say those are just stories, but I don’t believe that.

The god’s rule us still. They have come down from the stars. And they are no longer kind.


End file.
